Short Movie Review: Dunkirk

It’s alright. You should see it.

2020 Commute 101 of 52 (To): News Crawler – “PCFS”

One year ago today marked my first commute run from the new house. Three more in 2019 then 101 so far this year. But, I’m going to reminisce a bit further back.

In Atlanta around 1986 or so, everywhere you went there was a repeating sharpie tag on bathroom walls (and sidewalks and on abandoned cars and once on a billboard over the Downtown Connector in spray can) that read, “Kurt is a homo.”

What was funny about it was this was Atlanta in 1986 or so and EVERYONE was a homo EXCEPT maybe Kurt. At least in the incestuous circles of the bar and music industry in the Midtown/Emory/Decatur corridor.

Funnier still, it bothered Kurt who while not a homo (and, just who would fuck him, anyway?) was a prick.

Oh, I think Mr Poundsign has been outed.

JFK Mosaic, Digbeth

One of the oddest items you might hope to find in Brum is the JFK Memorial in Digbeth.  The original was put up by the Irish community in 1968 outside St Chad’s about a mile north of here but was demolished for a new road in 2007.  The son of the original artist recovered what he could of it and re-did the one you see above.

Originally, the inscription was

THERE ARE NO WHITE OR COLOURED SIGNS ON THE GRAVEYARDS OF BATTLE

which was a blatant dig at the racial strife in the States at the time…thank God THAT’s all sorted itself out.  The new inscription is a little less passive aggressive and bears an error of fact (should read “1961-3“).

A really nice thread running from 2009 until just after the reinstallation in 2013 exists over on the Birmingham History Forum.  The detail photos, alone are worth the visit.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning (#ArmisticeDay100)

Shutter at 10:59:59, as the cannons fired at RAF Northolt across the way.  The first ten seconds of 2 minutes silence entailed a drink to the fallen.

Random thoughts on a Century since the end of the War that Ended All War.

At 11 am every 11th of November all over Europe, everything comes to a silent halt for a couple of minutes … buses and trains, football in the park, everything.  A few years ago, I was in the Savoy, the Wetherspoons nearest the Swindon WWI memorial and lost track of time when the bar bell rang and every morning drinker –from old women with a medicinal sherry to hardened street drunks that had scraped together £1.80 for a ‘Spoons pint — stood, bowed their heads, and reflected silently for a moment.

Now, I was a lousy soldier, but my paperwork says I served honorably my short months in the US Army.  These instances on each Remembrance Day can move me to tears while the throwaway American idiom, “thank you for your service,” leaves me cold.  One of the things I like most about going to an American Legion bar (other than the ridiculously cheap booze) is that none of us will utter that fatuous phrase.

Speaking of colds, Jackie and I are at Death’s door with the flu, but the Parade would go on with or without us; we washed down some cold meds with honey, lemon, and bourbon then joined the crowds up the Ruislip High Street.

In years past, I have skipped the ceremony and, instead, watched on tele as  Mrs Windsor or a member of her family place the wreaths down at the Cenotaph on Remembrance Days gone by; however, I have never failed to stop by the local monument on the day, but sometimes it would be later in the afternoon just to quietly reflect for a moment in solitude.  Today, however, was meant to be special and just feeling a little under the weather is no excuse (unless you’re the fucking “US President” on a damp day — reminding us that you can’t spell ‘useless’ without US).

The White Poppy doesn’t bother me like it does a lot of people (most of whom have not served nor know anyone who has done); but, if you wear it for Peace then also wear the Red Poppy for Remembrance of all those conscripted souls that, in the face of madness and horror, just fucking got on with it until 11 am, a hundred years ago today.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

–excerpted from “For The Fallen” by Laurence Binyon